Sideburns and Scars and Queen
by Miyazaki A2
Summary: As usual for me, this is a series of oneshots, drabbles, etc. for the characters of HiNaBN. Will include slash and non-slash, namely Conrad/Worth and bromantic Hanna/Galahad. And maybe more characters later on. 8D
1. Bros

For obvious reasons, I'm not completely sure what having a little brother is exactly like, but I have to imagine that the feelings involved in that sort of relationship are basically the same feelings I have for Hanna. Hanna says that we're what one would call _'bros'_, but the charm of the slang is a little lost on me. Maybe having no memory of current pop-culture has made me old-fashioned, but _'brothers'_ seems like a much more descriptive term.

At the beginning of my undeath, I didn't really feel much of anything. There wasn't much of anything to have feelings _for_. I wandered a lot, but I didn't have any memories from which I could pull nostalgia or awe. People avoided me for the most part {or perhaps I avoided them} so I developed no relationships in all that time.

That all changed when I became Hanna's sidekick, his companion, his friend. Suddenly I cared about things, for the very first time. I imagine I must have cared for things while I was alive, but, sans memory, these were all-new experiences for me. Suddenly I had roots, a place and a person that actually _meant _something to me. Sure, that place was a dirty, rundown apartment complex and that person was an eccentric little spaz who didn't give a flying flip about his own personal well-being—but hey. It was something.

And besides, I really love the little spaz. It's not just because he was the first and only person to go out of his way to be a friend to me—let alone _be around _me—but because…well, because he's _Hanna_. Hanna, who is a questionably-successful paranormal-investigator-slash-Target-employee. Hanna, who runs headlong into potential danger even though he _promises _that he isn't going to do that anymore. Hanna, whose circle of friends is made up of a zombie, a vampire, a slightly-demented med-school dropout, the guy who _puts up _with the aforementioned drop-out, a werewolf, and a selkie's son. Hanna, who eats my cooking with a grin even though it probably tastes like dirt. Hanna, who gives me every name under the sun in hopes I would remember the one I used in life.

Hanna, whose friendship makes me not care if I_ do _or _don't_ ever remember anything about my life.

Hanna, Hanna, Hanna.

He really has changed {saved} my un-life.

* * *

_**(A/N)**_

**_Look guys, yet another fandom for me! Yay! It's a fantastic fandom, everyone should join...  
My first fic for Hanna is Not a Boy's Name, a very basic bromantic Zombie-POV...thing. Not too exciting. It anything's exciting, it'll be in later chapters that I have yet to think up. XD  
I'm very much into HiNaBN slash, but _****_the brotherly love thing comes from the last Q&A thing Miss Stone did, where {...} says that he sees Hanna as a best-friend-slash-little-brother. :)  
She also said Hanna works at Target. XD_**

**_All characters mentioned belong to Tessa Stone._**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	2. Scents

Demetrius {Inigo, Lancelot, Uwe} smelled a little like moist earth and a little like the city and a little like formaldehyde.

It was the strangest mixture between natural and unnatural. Dirt and rain from the cemetery Frederick had spent so long in. Car exhaust and cigarette smoke from the dark city streets he wandered through at night. Preservatives provided by Worth to cease his decaying process.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't lavender or roses, but it was Odin. Hanna would still press his nose into Mikhail's shirt on laundry-day, breathing in the heady, familiar scent. It was better than flowers.

* * *

_**(A/N)  
Exactly 100 words. :)**_


	3. This Thing

You knew that it was going to fall apart eventually. You couldn't keep it up, you knew you couldn't. It just wasn't realistic. Maybe you could have if you'd never really gotten to know him, if you'd simply been able to run into his office, grab your blood, and run out as he flung casual insults at you. But no, you knew the guy, and fuck it, he knew you too. He knew what to say to get you riled up, which buttons to push and when. And if you're being honest, you know it's your fault. You let him in the second you punched him the night you died. He started to figure you out right there. It only got worse as time went by, and shit, eventually you realized that he knew you better than _anyone_ did, and _howthefuckisthatfair. _

And it wasn't long after that that you guys started your biting-and-sex thing, and _whydidyoustartdoingthat_. And it would have been nice to say that you were just getting off on each other because of the whole vampirism-and-masochism thing, but damnit that wouldn't work because you _knew _each other. If you hadn't known him, you wouldn't have realized that he reserved that _certain _smirk and that _certain _tone of voice when he insulted someone for people he liked. And then you probably would have bit him just because you wanted to _hurt _him, not because he liked it. And that would have just made you angry and a little sick, but at least that would be it. You wouldn't _feel _anything else for the disgusting man.

Well, it wasn't like that. But for a while, you pretended it was. You pretended that you two were having sex for the sake of sex, that you were biting him _only_ because you were hungry. And this worked for a pretty long time. But then you made another stupid, stupid mistake:

You started to _like _the guy in a really weird kind of way. Cue the _dun-dun_-_DUN, _because really, what the hell were you thinking? When he mocked or teased you, how did your scowl turn into a smirk? How did your nose-breaking punch turn into a whack upside the head? How did your begrudging toleration turn into…begrudging affection?

You really should have gone right back on all the pills your mother used to give you, because you were obviously loco en la cabeza. It didn't even matter that you were a vampire and that your body probably wouldn't be able to process meds anymore—you should have pulled away from him the very first time one of your kisses was anywhere near sweet, turned around, left the office, and institutionalized yourself.

But you didn't, _ohholyfuckingmotherofJesus-H-Christ, _you didn't. You stayed in Worth's office and kept kissing him, even though he would pull away every so often to murmur a low "You're such a fag". Because you'd realized by then that he wouldn't be so awful if he didn't think you could take it, and that he _liked _you because you could take it. Somehow the two of you _worked_, which meant that this thing you had going on _couldn't _work, not the way it was.

So you told him. _Youstupidsonuvabitch_, you told him. You told him that it was okay if he kept on fucking around with you and being sort of awful to you, as long as he knew that you loved him. _Fuuuck,_ why did you say that? You ruined everything with that one idiotic, sappy sentence. Everything you'd come to enjoy was over now, _fuckfuckfuck._

Except, well…it _wasn't_. Worth sort of just looked at you like you were crazy for a second, and then laughed. And curled a skinny arm around your neck and pulled you in for a kiss and called you a sissy little fag. And laughed some more, and you knew him well enough to know that, _shit, _you were off the hook. He wasn't kicking you out and telling you to never come back again like you thought he would. He was just laughing and holding you and kissing you, and _holyfuckingbologna, _it all started to feel pretty possessive of him. Like he didn't want you to try and run away like you probably would have wanted to after saying something so stupid.

And then he pulled you into his dingy little bedroom and started making the same old demands of you and your teeth, and you obliged him with only minimal bickering in return because, _holy shit_, he didn't hate you for accidentally falling for him.

You knew that your thing with Worth was going to fall apart eventually, but _crap_, you didn't think that that would equal an _improvement._

* * *

_**(A/N)**_

**_Second-Person writing is actually a secret love of mine. I mean, I really enjoy it.  
And somehow it's really fantastic for the whole ConWorth thing. I mean, I'm not even the first to do it. So awesome._**

**_I hope this chapter isn't utter crap, regardless. _**

**_Much love,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	4. Who Wants to Live Forever?

You haven't figured out a whole hell of a lot about being a vampire quite yet, but at the very least, you know that, technically speaking, you're kind of going to live forever. Until somebody kills you, at least, and at this point it doesn't really look like anybody's really too keen on being your _(second)_ murderer. There was that Abner guy, but he hasn't really been that much of a threat ever since Hanna got to him with the Power of Friendship and all that shit. And there's your fellow vampires, but frankly you seem to amuse them way too much for them to want actively want to end your _(admittedly pathetic)_ existence.

So, basically, you're looking pretty damn immortal at this point.

Except, well, _shit, _you don't really want to be. You read _(that stupid book with that stupid frog that ruined everything) _"Tuck Everlasting"in school as a kid; you know that living forever isn't all it's cracked up to be. Hell, recently it's not even cracked up to be much anymore. On TV, only the evil psychopaths want to be immortal—either that or the tragic hero has the gift of Eternal Life thrust upon them.

And frankly, you don't really see yourself as a psychopath _(despite what your mother seems to think) _and you don't exactly fancy yourself a hero.

So where does that leave you? You're self-aware enough to admit that, yeah, if your whole immortality thing had come to you _without _you having to meet Hanna _(and subsequently the rest of those sorta fantastic nut jobs)_ then maybe you would have been kind of okay with it. Because it's not like you had any friends before, not like there was anybody you would be particularly horrified to outlive before. Hell, you would have been psyched to never have to miss any of the awesome technology that would come out a hundred years from your lifetime.

But, shit—now you _do _have friends _(which, yeah, are cooler than any new Apple product)_. People you fucking _care _about, people you can't really imagine not _existing _anymore. People you don't want to leave behind.

And it's with that train of thought that you realize that you don't really _plan _on living forever, or even all that much longer than the last of your friends to die. It's stupid, and maybe a little melodramatic, but you feel like at some point or another, you're going to find a way to die too. Because, if you're being honest _(and let's face it, you're actually usually pretty honest, most of the time) _you know that you still feel more like a human than a vampire. Sure, you drink blood _(most of the time from a plastic bag but sometimes from a grungy fake doctor's veins) _and you can't go outside in the daylight, but you still go about the motions of a human life. You work on your art commissions, you go shopping _(for Hanna's food, new Apple products, new clothes, since all of your outfits seem to get ripped apart lately), _you still call your mother every few weeks so she doesn't worry. A pretty normal human life, if you just discount the hours upon hours that you spend running around with redheads that smell like death, zombies, werewolves, half-selkies, and who knows what else.

And human lives end. It's just that simple to you, really.

Okay, so you're not exactly _jumping _at the idea of dying _(for keeps this time), _but it's just sort of this assumption that you have that you _will _die, way deep down in your brain where you can't really get too good a grasp on it. And it's not like you think about it much, anyway.

But it does come back to you, eventually. As years pass, you start to see new lines on your friends' faces. Lamont starts to casually complain about back pains when he's carrying his boxes. Worth's deadly sharp joints start to give him problems and he starts to take pills because he actually _needs _them. Hanna…well, Hanna doesn't start to move more _cautiously _exactly, but he does start to move a little slower. Bodies get bonier and voices change. Strides get shorter and hands start to shake. Your friends age.

And then after a while it's kind of just you and the zombie who haven't really gone through any major changes. Your bite wounds are gone _(see above, namely the bit about eating out of a doctor's neck) _and your second fang has grown in, but nothing else. The zombie _(Roger, Augustus, Wyatt, Ashley, whatever the hell Hanna called him last time) _hasn't really changed either, whether from magic or formaldehyde or whatever. So it's sort of just you and him watching all of your friends shrink and slow, and it kind of sucks.

But then you remember you've got a way out, at least. You can deal with being stuck as a twenty-seven-year-old while all your friends _(and the guy who's somehow managed to turn out to be the love of your life, __**fuck **__how lame is that) _get steadily older, because you've still got this vague idea that you're only going to live out a natural human lifespan, anyhow. Maybe you won't even have to go antagonize a vampire slayer or anything. Maybe after everyone you care about is dead, you'll leave your blackout curtains open one night and just sit in front of the window as the sun rises.

Or something overdramatic and sappy like that.

You don't know what the zombie will do, and that makes you feel a little bad, but really what can you do. He's in worse shape than you, as far as the unwanted immortality thing goes. You know he won't want to keep going a second longer after Hanna's gone, but you don't know how he'll make that happen. Ways to kill vampires are pretty well-known, but the only way you know of to kill a zombie that is to blast their head off with a shotgun or completely destroy their bodies, and, uh, _eww_.

The two of you start to spend more time with each other as years pass into decades. Somehow, Hanna's little gang of misfits _(Hanna included) _are living pretty long, full lives, which is nice but also a little lonely. You and the zombie don't exactly have heart-to-non-beating-heart chats, but it's nice to be around somebody who understands your despondency when you come back from picking up arthritis pills for Worth or something. Nice to be able to tell somebody about your little open-window idea and have them just nod in agreement _(or is it just acknowledgment?) _rather than try to talk you out of it.

And once you realize that the two of you get along pretty well, for a minute or two you think that maybe you and the zombie could live for each other once everyone else was…gone…But you know that that wouldn't fly. The zombie _(the __**man**__) _already has no real life of his own beyond Hanna; his very existence revolves around the ever-energetic redhead, and you can accept that. Admire it, even. So you sort of take it for granted that he won't last forever either, that he's going to be gone someday too. It's what the guy wants, anyhow.

And, actually, it's not all that sad. You're not exactly the most religious guy in the world, but you've got this really vague belief in souls and whatnot. After all, hello, _ghosts _are real, so why not souls, why not a final resting place? You think that that kind of thing sounds pretty nice. A lot nicer than eternal parasitic life, at least. _(After all, once Worth is gone, where will you get blood? You're not about to go and kill somebody, not after you've lasted so long without doing so.)_

So, once it's all thought through, you put the entire problem away again and simply try to enjoy your life, however long it may last. You take care of your friends, as does the zombie. You still bicker with Worth and get dragged into adventures with Hanna _(who won't quit his business until the day he dies) _and you still work on your art. And everything's pretty okay. Things will work out one way or another, you know. Things will end up how they should. So you let your immortality problem slide for a bit _(because God knows you don't need anything else to stress about)_ and just try to keep everybody from doing anything so stupid that it might put them in their graves too prematurely.

* * *

_**(A/N)**_

**_This was really more of an experiment/study than anything else. I don't know how seriously I take it, myself.  
It's just, with HiNaBN, there isn't a whole lot of looking forward going on. Hanna instrinsically lives in the moment. So I wanted to write this out because, omg, turning a guy into a vampire has consequences, who knew?_**

**_Much love for all you guys putting up with my crap,  
Miyazaki A2_**


	5. Exclusive

The clock next to your futon-mattress of a bed declares it to be nearly 4:30 in the morning, which means that Connie's going to be stuck here all day unless he leaves right at this very second. And somehow you doubt that he's going to do that, seeing how he's completely out of it at the moment, still blissed out from the…_substances_ he sucked out of your neck an hour or so ago.

His face is buried in your neck and he's pretty much cuddling the entire right side of your body, the cute, half-high little fag. You're pretty sure he's asleep, so you ease your arm away from him so you can grab a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of your pants, which lay discarded on the floor beside your bed. Connie hates it when you smoke in bed, but it's your own damn house, so you can do whatever the fuck you want, right? Right. Screw him.

But then, just as you're lighting up, you feel a breath against your neck and you think, _shit, _because Connie doesn't breathe when he's asleep. _(Or even move. It's like he really is a corpse when he's asleep.) _But it's not like you're going to put out the cigarette now that you've lit it, so you sort of just lay there and hope that he's still too fucked up to give you hell about it. He shifts a little bit, his fingers twitching against your skin, and after a little while of that, he half-sits up to look you blearily in the face. Aw yeah, he's definitely not quite himself yet. You feel a huge grin twist your lips, and it turns into a laugh when he grimaces at you. "Hey there, hot stuff. How are you this fine mornin'?"

He glares sleepily for a moment longer before deciding to give it up as a bad job. "You're as wasted as I am," he mutters _(slurs)_, rolling a bit and settling onto his stomach, arms folded under his chin. You laugh _(cackle)_.

"Nah, I can hold my narcotics 'lot better than you, Connie-boy. 'M just high on life," you say because it sounds like the cheesy sort of thing that makes him smirk, wasted or not. Once you win your smirk, you half-roll on top of him, plopping your chin right on top of that silly-ass dinosaur on his shoulder-blade. He makes an annoyed little noise, but doesn't explicitly complain, so you don't move. You keep smoking lazily, trying not to drop any ash on Connie because, whoo-boy, _that _would go over well. You don't exactly want him making a fuss just yet; that can wait until six o'clock when he realizes that he can't go home. You like him like this—sated and sleepy and just a little bit high off his rocker. You don't get that last part very often, so you're trying to enjoy it while you can, before he goes off on you about you taking advantage of his hunger or some silly shit like that. You think it's damn funny how vehemently he insists he doesn't want you sometimes.

After a minute or so, he wriggles underneath you again, wanting to roll over, you guess. Snickering, you let him, rising up on your hands until the very second he's on his back, and then you flop down hard on his chest, knocking the wind out of him even though he really shouldn't have had any breath in him at all, the stupid git. But then he sort of just laughs and calls you an ass and whacks the side of your head, which wins _him_ a smirk.

"Hey," he says, half-blind eyes squinting at you. Smiling. Running his hands up and down your back, fingernails dragging across your skin just right. "Hey, Worth."

"Whaddaya want."

He purses his lips, probably in thought, but you steal a kiss anyway because you know he hates being interrupted when he's trying to talk to you. But he kisses back anyway, and nips at your lower lip, just hard enough to draw blood. You both hiss, but he's not hungry right now so it doesn't last long. He just licks at the spilt blood and pulls away. Looking deeply unhappy for some goddamn reason. You cock your head to one side.

"Whath'fuck's eatin' you?"

This time he furrows his brow. And the shit that'll come out of his mouth in two seconds is going to find you so off-guard that you'll be speechless, for once.

"Hey Worth. If another vampire offered to bite you and, y'know, fuck you, would you let them?"

Holy fucking shit. See? How can you _possibly _respond to _that? _You totally do _not _gape at him like a fish out of water, totally _not _at a loss for words.

It takes a minute of you staring at his slightly scrunched-up face for him to back down, tensing up under you and looking away. "Uh. I mean—No, ugh, I didn't—Jesus—"

And watching him feeling so damn uncomfortable gives you your brain back. You push up on his chest, reach over and extinguish your cigarette on the concrete floor, and then fix him with a glare. "What the hell? Are you trying to ask me if we're fuckin' _exclusive_, Connie? What are we, fuckin' sixteen years old?"

He's obviously decided that he does _not _in fact _actually_ want to have this conversation. "Forget it forget it forget it forget it—"

And then you have to laugh, because he's such an idiot. "Fuck, Connie, do yeh really think I've got enough _time _to juggle a fuckin' _harem? _I do _work, _y'know. 'M not a _complete _bum."

"I know, I'm sorry, forget it, please—"

But that would be giving him what he wants. And you're a bit too distracted to do that. "And I know a fuckin' thing or two about succubus and incubus, lemme tell you. You're one o' the only vamps I know of that fucks, eats, and leaves people _alive_."

His face pales. It's a testament to how much blood you're willing to give him that he can temporarily blush and pale, as if he were human. It's cute in the kind of way that makes you want to mock him. But there's no time for that. You laugh at his expression but also just because you feel like laughing.

You pat his cheek because he thinks it's condescending, and it kind of is. "Don't worry, princess. Yer th' only one in my life."And then you laugh again and he looks pissed off and maybe a little nauseous, which only makes you laugh more.

And then you rest your cheek on his collarbone, still laughing. And he starts doing that fantastic thing with his fingernails again, because you've probably just made him the happiest little fag in the tri-city area.


	6. SemiDecent Human Being

You wake up slowly, sleepily content with the steady puffs of breath against the back of your neck and the warm, skinny arms around you. You take a few _(admittedly unnecessary) _breaths yourself as you wake up, reaching for your glasses. By instinct, the first thing you see is the digital clock Worth keeps by his _(crap-ass)_ bed.

And then you yelp, flailing, roughly knocking Worth off of you but not really caring. Not even completely awake, he's already cursing up a storm. You ignore him like a pro as you start hastily pulling on yesterday's discarded clothes. A little late, you apologize for waking him up as you pull your shirt over your head, but he throws a lumpy pillow at your head anyway, effectively knocking off your glasses. You put them back on and turn to shoot him daggers. He glares blearily at you in return.

"The fuck're you in such a rush fer, Fagula?" he grumbles, voice still thick with interrupted sleep.

You open your mouth to reply but stop yourself, wondering if you should bother lying or not. You're a little worried that the truth might bring on a little more mocking than strictly desired, but it's not like he won't be able to tell if you're lying.

"Er," you say, "I've got a thing tonight. A work thing." _(So descriptive, you are.)_

He sits up a little straighter _(as straight as Worth can), _rubbing his eyes and glancing at the clock. "What does a _vampire _need ta work for? 'Snot like I charge ya for the bagged shit I give yeh."

You scoff, giving your attention back to becoming presentable. "You're thinking of the vampires that don't have to pay bills or buy food for their friends. My _fang _doesn't exactly scare my landlord out of charging me rent."

He snickers, getting out of bed to gather up his own clothes. "Heh, yeah, guess yeh need 'lectricity fer yer computer so yeh kin do yer little artsy shit," he says, and for some reason you feel a stupid little flutter in your stomach over the fact that he's bothered to remember what you do for a living, that you're an artist.

Distracted, you watch as he throws yesterday's clothes into a basket in the corner _(proof that he _must_ wash his clothes _sometimes_ even if you don't know _when the hell_)_ and goes over to his small, shabby dresser. He pulls on a pair of boxers and an undershirt before starting to dig through his clothes in earnest. "This work thing—izzit formal and fancy and all that shit?"

You shrug, suddenly remembering that _oh yeah_, it's 6:15 in the evening and you've got to be at that hotel on the other side of town by 7:00 and you didn't _drive here, shit_. "Uh, yeah, kind of, I guess. Er, I designed a new logo for this art-supplies company and they're revealing it tonight at a big anniversary dinner, and it's pretty important so…I've got to go back to my apartment and grab some nicer clothes…"

Which really means '_I need to get the __**hell**__ out of here so I can go back and grab a suit_ _**right now**_ _so please stop talking to me,' _but you don't think he gets it, because he just stares blankly at you for a few seconds before going back to rooting through his dresser for clothes, as if he completely expects you to keep standing there. _(Which you do, but still. Honestly, you've got to go.)_

But then he pulls out a white button-up and a pair of nice slacks with a matching jacket which, yeah, still has the inexplicable fur-lining, but _hey. _What the hell is he _doing?_

"Uhh, Worth? What are you _doing?_"

And the look that he sends you makes your stomach drop, because he's wearing that devious smile that he gets when he's thought of a really great way to get you all flustered and pissed off for a few minutes.

"Well I gotta see what my darling Connie-honey is doing with his precious time away from me, of course. I'm just so proud of him and his work, doncha know."

And you're already feeling flustered and pissed off and _wow, _he's really good at that isn't he. "Oh come on, Worth, don't be such an asshole. This is a really important night for me, and you're not going to ruin it. You can't go with me."

"I can't believe I'm letting you go with me. You better not ruin tonight for me," you grumble as the two of you walk towards your apartment.

He says, "I'll be on my best behavior, Princess," but it's not like that means much, now does it. And yeah, he does look _kind of_ presentable compared to his usual state of being, but as far as anyone else goes he's still this random, grungy guy that you're bringing to a big official event _(and what kind of guy does that make you, since he's basically your _date?_)._

Not a very smart guy, as far as you can tell, but whatever. You're at your place now, which means you've got to be thinking about hair gel and outfit coordinating and _not _about Worth. Granted, that's a little hard when he's walking right next to you, totally ready to get into your apartment and rearrange all your shit, but you can deal with that. Before long you leave him in your open living room with a warning and disappear into the bathroom that connects to your bathroom, and you're in the Getting Ready _Zone._ You've got the perfect outfit planned, stylish black and red to offset your newfound dead-pale skin, crisp, sleek lines all the way down, the works. You're going to look damn good once it's on, like a fucking _professional—_

And then once it's on, you realize that you have no idea how you _really _look, because the suit is _all _you can see when you look in the mirror. That, and your glasses hovering in midair. How it looks with your aforementioned newfound dead-pale skin, you've got no idea. That your hair doesn't look like total shit, you're only assuming. Damnit.

Defeated, you poke your head out of your bedroom. Worth, who's inexplicably holding one of your small potted plants, looks over at you and cocks an eyebrow. "Yeh done putting on yer makeup, Princess?"

You give him a faux-laugh, stepping completely into the living room, watching with _(premature?) _satisfaction as he gives you a one-over, his other eyebrow rising to join the first. "Heh. How do I look?" And it's sort of an honest question, but you put a sarcastic edge to it because you know better than to expect an honest answer.

"Like a proper art-fag," he responds, and, well, okay, you guess it's the closest you'll ever get to a compliment from him. And it's okay, really, because isn't a proper art-fag _close _to what you were going for anyway?

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, asshole. Screw you."

"Nah, we gotta hurry and get to the dinner, dear. No time for that."

As it is, you make it to the hotel where they're holding the dinner with five minutes to spare and only minimal pushing, shoving, and arguing. Quite a feat, actually. You're vaguely proud of yourself as you're led to your reserved table in the huge room. Part of you even wants to try grabbing Worth's wrist to see if he really is going to keep acting like a semi-decent human being, but the rest of you is scared of pushing your luck. You don't want him making a scene or shouting the word _fag _in the middle of _this_ particular crowd. So you don't try.

Once you're seated, he pounces, rattling off all the insults he can think of about the other people here, whispering them right in your ear, as if he'd been deliberately holding back earlier for some reason. You elbow him in the ribs _hard _because even though none of the people here are your _friends _per se, they're still your _people. _But that only encourages him, and he starts a game by pointing out every yuppie he sees and telling you _exactly_ what he thinks about them. At You keep telling him to shut the hell up because he's being _so rude_, but deep down you know that he's pretty much right on all counts, and the only reason you don't laugh at his comments is because you don't quite want to let him win.

You two keep this up pretty much right up until the first speaker gets up to the microphone, and then the two of you shut up. But as the guy talks about their company like they're some kind of goddamn saints as far as the art community is concerned, Worth practically _twitches _with unspoken commentary. You can just _tell _that he wants to say something about the poor guy's loud pink suit, but he's refraining. The twitching only gets worse as more speakers come up to the podium, and you suddenly realize that he's actually making an _effort _to keep from ruining your night. And even though you don't need to breathe, your throat still gets all tight like you're some stupid teenage girl who's crush has just held her hand for the first time. In a daze you think, _'I'll have to make this up to him tonight.'_

And you're still thinking about that when suddenly you hear your name over the loudspeaker, and Worth is jabbing you in the ribs with his (_pointy, oh so sharp) _elbow, muttering, "Stand up, stupid." Practically tripping over your chair and your own feet, you stand up and wave at the crowd of artists, who are clapping and acting like you're some sort of _name _in the community even though they haven't even revealed the logo yet. But still. They're _applauding_ you, and you see that even Worth is giving you a few lazy, indulgent claps too. And even though he's probably only doing this because he _also_ knows that he's going to make you make it up to him, you're still apparently a teenage girl, because you still feel all flattered and happy and stupid about it. You sit down before you can do anything embarrassing, grinning nervously, and suddenly it's time for the reveal. Everyone gets quiet as the big screen at the front of the room warms up, and suddenly every one's clapping again because, _hey,_ there's that logo you worked on for so long, the one that's going to put so much fucking money in your bank account, _yes please and thank you._

And Worth is sitting next to you, quiet for once, his eyes following the curves and silhouettes of the logo almost thoughtfully. _(Almost.)_ You watch him, concerned and a little self-conscious, but he just gives you an odd look. "Ya didn't draw that," he informs you, sounding serious as hell.

"Oh, I didn't? Oh well, _shit_, we're probably at the wrong dinner, then. Thanks for letting me know."

And he cackles and looks back up at the screen, cocking that eyebrow again. And then he says, "Well, we don't need ta fuckin' be here anymore; you've done your bit. Lezzgo."

For half a second you have a flashback to when your mother would always insist on leaving your awards ceremonies at school right after you got your A-Honor-Roll and Perfect Attendance medals, because your name was so early up in the alphabet and there was no real obligation to stay. But then you're distracted because he's grabbing your wrist and dragging you out of the huge room through an emergency exit that he really shouldn't have been using. But the alarm doesn't go off and you don't even have time to bitch about it before he's pressing you against a wall and kissing you so hard that you think he's trying to make a point.

What his point is, you have no idea. You think he's just ready to go back to bed. Apparently his ability to function in semi-regular society only lasts a couple of hours at a time before he short-circuits. But that's fine. That's him. And he_ totally_ didn't ruin your night, so what more can you ask of him?

You manage to convince him to let you drive the two of you back to your apartment before you let him _completely _revert back to his usual devious self, but only just barely.


End file.
